Yes, that is precisely what my work in the kitchen was good for — when Miss Granger, Mr Malfoy, and I were first forced to flee Hogwarts, I attempted to lose myself in brewing, but my distraction proved too great. (Black grew particularly pointed after I disintegrated the last of the size four pewter cauldrons; Mr Malfoy and I were banished from the stillroom in no short order.) Applying myself to baking edibles rather than brewing potions was, at first, a simple attempt to avoid wasting the Order's resources further; that it allowed me to contribute in some small part to the household's well-being — a well-being I am entirely aware my presence disrupted — was a side benefit I had not expected, but grew to appreciate. (That it also allowed me to bicker with that miserable elf over which of us was going to be cooking supper on any given night was another bonus; the chance to vent my irritation on a fight that did not matter in the least helped me in keeping my temper when butting heads with Black and Lupin.)
Miss Granger was in the habit of sitting with me, though rarely assisting beyond fetching an ingredient I had forgot when my hands were dirty, as I baked — a great deal of the more theoretical tutelage I provided her was during those discussions, and we did have more than one moment of breakthrough for what to try next whilst I was kneading the dough or experimenting with the gluten-forming charms for the cookies. (And yes, kneading bread is an excellent form of working meditation; it is the one step I would never do with wand instead.) Mr Malfoy joined us occasionally, but less frequently; I often used the afternoons for cooking and baking, and he was more likely to be elsewhere occupied.
I rarely used written recipes. When in Azkaban, living inside my mind and behind my Occlumency barriers to evade the Dementors' attention, I occupied that mind by creating a thought-form Potions laboratory with every ingredient or piece of equipment I needed to conduct my 'experiments' and review the collection of preparations I had committed to memory. When I grew too frustrated by my inability to advance my art — as it is impossible to truly create a potion in one's mind with no experimental phase; no plan survives first contact with the enemy and no potion survives in the first form its creator dreams it — I would torment myself by imagining baking and cooking all the foods I did not at the time think I would ever get a chance to eat again. That this practise allowed me to retain most of the recipes I would otherwise undoubtedly have lost to time, near-madness, and Dementor's hunger was an unexpected bonus.
I do believe the recipe for the chocolate chip cookies is in my bench-journals, however. Chocolate was a dear enough ingredient that I did not wish to waste any of it, or lose it to a half-remembered recipe. There may be others — you would need to ask Miss Granger; she is undoubtedly ten times more familiar with those journals' contents than I am. By the end of my borrowed time I was writing down every passing scrap of thought that crossed my mind, in the hopes she would survive me and someday find them useful. I am so very pleased that she did.
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Date: 2015-09-05 02:39 am (UTC)Miss Granger was in the habit of sitting with me, though rarely assisting beyond fetching an ingredient I had forgot when my hands were dirty, as I baked — a great deal of the more theoretical tutelage I provided her was during those discussions, and we did have more than one moment of breakthrough for what to try next whilst I was kneading the dough or experimenting with the gluten-forming charms for the cookies. (And yes, kneading bread is an excellent form of working meditation; it is the one step I would never do with wand instead.) Mr Malfoy joined us occasionally, but less frequently; I often used the afternoons for cooking and baking, and he was more likely to be elsewhere occupied.
I rarely used written recipes. When in Azkaban, living inside my mind and behind my Occlumency barriers to evade the Dementors' attention, I occupied that mind by creating a thought-form Potions laboratory with every ingredient or piece of equipment I needed to conduct my 'experiments' and review the collection of preparations I had committed to memory. When I grew too frustrated by my inability to advance my art — as it is impossible to truly create a potion in one's mind with no experimental phase; no plan survives first contact with the enemy and no potion survives in the first form its creator dreams it — I would torment myself by imagining baking and cooking all the foods I did not at the time think I would ever get a chance to eat again. That this practise allowed me to retain most of the recipes I would otherwise undoubtedly have lost to time, near-madness, and Dementor's hunger was an unexpected bonus.
I do believe the recipe for the chocolate chip cookies is in my bench-journals, however. Chocolate was a dear enough ingredient that I did not wish to waste any of it, or lose it to a half-remembered recipe. There may be others — you would need to ask Miss Granger; she is undoubtedly ten times more familiar with those journals' contents than I am. By the end of my borrowed time I was writing down every passing scrap of thought that crossed my mind, in the hopes she would survive me and someday find them useful. I am so very pleased that she did.